


One Thing After Another

by triedunture



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Bittersweet Ending, Bottom Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, Comeplay, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Compactor Challenge, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Public Sex, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Wet & Messy, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 06:36:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3199139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve likes being gangbanged. Bucky finds out and disapproves. He means to put a stop to it. He really does. But one thing leads to another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Thing After Another

**Author's Note:**

> A note about the dubcon tag: Steve consents to anonymous sex in these gangbang scenarios, but he does not specifically consent to Bucky's presence or participation. While he seems to encourage Bucky later, the story is told from Bucky's POV and could be interpreted as an unreliable narrator situation.

Steve doesn't bother denying it. 

That probably makes Bucky's blood boil more than the thing itself. 

Because who the hell trusts the word of the guys on the block anyway? Rumors trickle out of mouths and into ears all the time; they don't necessarily hold a grain of truth. So—drinking buddies be damned—Bucky'd popped that guy from down the block right in his fat nose and told him to quit flapping his trap. He figured Steve would be glad and agree that it was all a bunch of horseshit. 

"Didn't you hear me?" Bucky tries to meet Steve's eyes. Steve lifts his newspaper higher. (The rag's a day old, gets 'em from their neighbor when she's through with it.) "He was dragging your name through the mud."

"I don't care what people say about me," Steve says mildly. He folds over Sports and examines the type with care. 

All it would take is Steve's tacit agreement that the guy was in the wrong, and Bucky wouldn't be bothered anymore. And there goes Steve, giving him nothing but _who cares_. Bucky doesn't press the issue, but he watches more closely. And as the weeks go by, he feels a fool for not seeing what's been plain as the nose on his face. Steve staying out late till all hours. Steve hissing over his scabbed knees, dabbing them with iodine while crouched on the edge of the bathtub. Steve buttoning up his shirt all the way to his throat even in the high heat of midday. 

So maybe the rumors are true. Except they can't be, Bucky's sure of it. Little Stevie? One of the fairies that—? Bucky can't say the words out loud. But having one guy right after the other, it's not right. It's dangerous, is what it is. 

Bucky waits up one of the late nights. Is sitting right there at the kitchen table when Steve drags himself in just ahead of the sun. 

"Aw Jesus," Steve mutters at the sight of him.

Bucky can't even eke out a curse. Steve's a ruin: hair mussed and stringy, face streaked with grime, stains on the front of his trousers, a shirt tail waving. He smells of it. All those guys. Reeks with layers of sweat and jizz and spittle.

"It's true?" Bucky's mouth is desert-dry. "The stuff they were saying about you?"

"That's nobody's business but mine," Steve says, and sweeps past Bucky before he can even stand. There's not a lot of space in this apartment to run or hide, so Bucky just follows him into their tiny shared bedroom while Steve unbuttons his cuffs.

"Steve, why didn't you tell me you're hurting for cash? Christ, I can lend you what you need, you don't have to—"

Steve turns to stare at him, brow furrowed. "You think this is about money?" He shakes his head. "I don't take money from anyone, Buck."

"Then why do it?" Bucky begs. Could be blackmail, he thinks. Could be lots of things.

"Because," Steve says, tired, "I like it."

Bucky hadn't thought it could be that. Hadn't even entered his brain. And now that it has, the idea takes root in the dirt. Pictures of Steve laid out for a whole row of guys, panting for it, crying out for more, spread wide and filthy like a— 

Whores get paid, so he's not sure what you'd call this.

"But it's against the law," Bucky says instead, and it sounds so very weak on his tongue. 

A shrug. "So's living in this flop." The whole building was supposed to be up-to-code three years ago. But where's a guy like Steve (and by extension, his best pal) supposed to live if not in the cheapest of the cheap? Which brings Buck back to the issue of money, and why a body would do this if not for payment. 

Steve looks at him— _him_ —with pity. "You don't understand, do you?"

He doesn't. He can't. The excuses he comes up with are varied and hollow: Steve's lack of self-preservation; Steve's absent father; Steve's bad luck with girls. It's all pushed Steve to this, right? Why else. 

"I like it," Steve repeats, turning and stripping his shirt over his head, for once unconcerned about Bucky's eyes on his bruises, the scratch marks. "And I'm going to keep doing it when I feel like doing it. And if you don't like it?" He kicks off his shoes and crawls into bed. "Go to hell," muffled sleepily into his pillow. 

At least take a bath, Bucky wants to say. At least tell me why. Tell me anything that'll make sense of this. 

But he doesn't say anything. And in the morning, Steve makes them oatmeal for breakfast and chats about the chances of rain like it's a normal Sunday, and Bucky feels like he must be going insane. Steve is still somehow Steve and Bucky doesn't see how that's possible. 

So he follows. The very next time Steve takes off after dark, shrugging into his light jacket and saying he's going to get bread for tomorrow when they both know damn well the grocer's closed and the bakery's empty. Bucky waits a few minutes, and then he follows. 

He loses Steve a few times around corners or cutting through alleys. Ends up wandering around empty streets for nearly twenty minutes, just him and his shadow and the buzz of the street lamps. But then he catches some movement in the dark and he walks toward it.

Turns out to be a man smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, one point of orange light in the pitch black shadow of the Manhattan Bridge. He stands just outside of its massive cathedral arch, eyes drifting up and down the lane. Bucky approaches with his hands slouched in his pockets, and the man nods to him.

"Here for the party?" the stranger asks. 

Under the bridge, sounds grow and echo. Buck's ears pick up creaks and groans, drumbeat slaps, a low murmur of flesh. It mixes with the noise from the traffic high above his head: ca-clack ca-clack, ca-clack ca-clack. 

Bucky doesn't say anything, but the look on his face must answer for him because the guy waves him on through. 

He keeps telling himself that whatever's going on under this bridge tonight, it's got nothing to do with Steve. This could all be some elaborate gag on Steve's part. It'll be some other guy at the bottom of the sweaty pile, hell, maybe a dame. Whoever it is might need saving; Bucky's just here to get some poor sap—not Steve—out of hot water. 

He steps into the dark.

Lets his eyes adjust.

There's a big wooden crate shoved against the wall of the arch, and next to that crate is a man with his flies undone, pounding away, and behind that crate is an informal queue of guys who are not speaking to each other, and beyond that is the other side of the bridge. Bucky takes in all this to delay as long as possible the knowledge that it's Steve on that crate, on his back with his legs spread wide and his mouth open and pink. 

No excuses left. Not for either of him. What the hell is he doing here, watching this. He can hear Steve's rough, late-night voice in his head telling him not to stick his fucking nose in. Should just turn on his heel and take off for home and never mention it again. 

But Buck stands there in the loose knot of men, frozen. 

He's never seen people fucking before, let alone two guys together. It looks more like animals than he'd imagined. The man on top of Steve is big, older, a little grizzled around his chin. Clothes say shipwork, probably heading back to the docks after this to go back to the sea. He's quiet, this guy, just plugging away. Steve though. He's a loud one. Not chatty, just making plenty of noise.

Maybe it's just the way sound travels here under the bridge, but Bucky can hear every gasp, every catch of breath in his throat, every whisper of "Shit yes" and "God damn, do it, do it." His thin chest heaves, shirt rucked up under his arms to show his hard little prick, pink and wet and appearing between thrusts from the sailor. There's a grin a mile wide slapped onto his face, one that Bucky has never seen before. And he'd thought himself an expert in all of Steve's faces.

"Hey." 

Bucky's head whips to the right to stare at the man standing next to him: small, dark, Italian by his accent. He's got a tent in his pants and a stubborn scowl on his face. 

"Got to wait your turn, pal. Same as the rest of us."

Bucky ignores him. He can see everything from here. He needs to see, needs to— Damn it, his blood is up again, heating him red as hell. He's so angry, he wants to dish out a beating to someone, doesn't matter who.

He takes stock of the candidates. The sailor's defenses are down, so he has that going for him. The Italian is still glowering in Buck's direction and shuffling forward like an old lady trying to stake out her place in a queue at the bank. Behind him is a lanky beanpole with a bushy mustache, cock already out of his pants, jerking shamelessly and craning his neck for a better view. Bringing up the end of the line is a nervous Nellie, blond and watery-eyed, who keeps glancing at Bucky and the escape route in equal measure. The guy standing watch out of sight—has he already taken his turn? Is that a house rule, first one to fuck has to stick around and play lookout?

And then there's Steve himself, of course. But if he could have sense beaten into him, he would've gotten some by now, and at the hands of guys more proficient at it than Bucky.

(On the crate, Steve arches his back and crows. He's going to break his damn spine, doing that.) 

The sailor finishes up with a quiet grunt. He slips his prick out of Steve's ass and beats a hasty retreat, doing up his pants as he goes. Bucky can see the barest trickle of wetness between Steve's legs before the Italian is pushing to the front, already working open his trouser buttons. He uses the head of his dick to collect all the sticky come he can before he nudges in. Steve gives him a loud noise at that, his mouth a perfect O, eyes staring up at the underside of the bridge. "Good, that's good," he murmurs more to himself than the Italian. His smile softens into a lazy curl on his lips.

Bucky can't take much more of this. The wrongness of it, the disgust building at the back of his throat. Sweat beads on his upper lip. He licks it away, tastes salt. He takes a step forward without realizing it.

"You can go ahead," says the mustache guy with his prick in his hand. "I'm just watching."

Bucky looks at him, then looks over at the guy who's a bundle of nerves. "I'm still working up to it," he says with a swallow. Mustache and Nellie both gesture him forward.

The conversation, as small as it is, must catch Steve's notice because he turns his head to see what all the fuss is about. And his eyes meet Bucky's. Nothing at first, no real spark of recognition but then it must dawn on him the way it did Buck: they're really here staring each other in the face.

"Hey, don't—" Steve starts to sit up, and the Italian takes that as some kind of cue. He scoops Steve into his stout arms, hauling him forward, and gives it to him hard. Steve cries out at the new angle, his face contorted in shock. 

"Got nice and tight all of a sudden," the Italian coos. He whacks Steve's bottom with one square hand. "Keep that up, Blondie." 

Steve grimaces past the guy's shoulder, gaze fixed on Bucky, mouth clamped shut. Probably wants to know what the hell he plans on doing. Bucky's kind of curious himself; he's not sure yet.

He takes a step forward. Another. 

The Italian glances over at him. "Listen, johnnie, don't creep up behind me like that; makes it so I lose my concentration. If you really can't wait another minute, stick it in his mouth."

"He does suckjobs too?" Bucky hears himself ask, and his voice is a terrible snarl. 

Mustache doesn't seem to hear anything unusual and answers, "He does it all. Go ahead, see for yourself."

The Italian lays Steve back down. Now that he's closer, Bucky can see that Steve's light jacket has been spread onto the crate as a small gesture of comfort to keep his bare skin from the splinters. Steve squirms on top of his jacket and stares up at Bucky, chest working like a bellows. He opens his legs nice and wide for the Italian, who mutters something appreciative. Then he reaches forward for Bucky's flies and unfastens them all while never looking away from his heated stare. 

Bucky thinks about stopping him, he really does. But his erection is straining and leaking in his pants and it seems useless to deny it. Steve gives the waistband of his trousers a little tug, crooks a finger in a 'come here' gesture, and Bucky is bending down before he can think twice. 

Steve presses his lips right up against Bucky's ear. They brush against the curve of it, back and forth with the Italian's thrusts. To their small audience, it might look like he's kissing Buck's neck or talking dirty. "Don't use my name here," is all Steve whispers. 

Bucky straightens and looks down at Steve's face, wavering in his sight below the head of his throbbing prick. There is no fear in those familiar eyes, not even much shame. Just a challenge. That pink mouth pulls into a smirk. 

Bucky's hands shoot out to grab him, one hand cupping his chin and the other clamping down on his forehead. The back of his head slams against the crate with a loud thunk, and Steve gasps, eyes wide. Mustache pipes up: "Whoa, buddy, easy there."

Bucky turns to him with a snarl. "You his white knight or something?" Because Bucky's the one who's been looking out for this punk his whole damn life and just _look_ at the job he's done. Steve has the gall to actually laugh. One short huff of it, warm on the head of Bucky's dick, which still wavers above his face. 

"Just know a good deal when I see one," Mustache says. He keeps jerking off with one hand, raises the other in a sort of conciliatory gesture. "You rough him up, he may not come back for more. Understand?" 

"It's fine, he'll be fine," Steve says, finally speaking beyond grunts and curses. His slim hand reaches up to close around Bucky's slick shaft. "Now, are you going to get with the program or not, fella?" he goads. 

This is not some game of chicken. This is not a boyhood dare. This is Steve Rogers pinned under the weight of some stranger and Bucky's own hands and _asking_ for it. And Bucky's so fucking mad, he's going to give it to him. 

He tilts Steve's head toward him and lets him guide his dick into those parted lips. Steve's eyes flutter shut, like he's enjoying the taste, and that just makes Bucky angrier. Now he's dragged Bucky down into the gutter with him.

"Taking it all?" Bucky says in a breathless hiss. It's meant to sound nasty, but he can't help the hint of compulsive pleasure in his voice. He's never been sucked before; good girls don't do that kind of thing. Good people, period. But Steve has certainly had the practice in being bad. He can't move with Bucky's hands holding him down, but he swirls his tongue around the head of his dick and looks up at him with those big doe eyes that say, clear as day, he's enjoying Buck's struggle. 

His hips jerk forward and back, awkward and unsure. The Italian leans forward to watch. Bucky can hear his panting breaths. Like a slavering dog. 

"He is good, such good—" And he tapers off into something Bucky can't decipher. He collapses atop Steve's thin chest with a groan, thrusting a few final times. The wet, squishing sound assaults Bucky's ears. 

It takes just a few moments for the Italian to lever himself off and tuck himself back into his pants. "Your turn, pal," he says, and then disappears with a parting slap to Steve's bare knee. 

Bucky glares over at Mustache and Nellie, but nobody reneges on their earlier promises. Under his hands, Steve's eyes are rolling back in his head in evident bliss, the head of Bucky's cock stretching his cheek. If only he could come in Steve's mouth and his ass—claim him both ways. The thought buzzes through Bucky's fevered brain. His shirt sticks with sweat to the planes of his back. 

"You want me to put this in you?" He jams his cock further in Steve's mouth and the little shit just opens his eyes and smiles, lips stretching around his shaft. Bucky thrusts harder. "Is that it? Doesn't matter whose it is?"

Steve can't speak with his face being fucked, but his eyes telegraph a cocky _That's the idea_ right up at Bucky. Frustration builds up in his chest, and he pulls his prick out of Steve's mouth roughly, leaving a thread of glistening spittle on Steve's chin. 

"Since you like getting fucked by strange men so much," Bucky growls, grabbing him by the arm, "how about I flip you over so you don't have to look me in the face?" He manhandles Steve's small weight until he's on his stomach, ass presented to Bucky, his legs dangling over the edge of the crate. 

Steve gives a token grunt of protest at the rough treatment and hooks his chin over his shoulder to say, "If that's the way you want it. Just fuck me already." He spreads his legs and reveals his hole.

Bucky fumbles with his cock, drenched in Steve's own spit. The sight of Steve's hole, all red and wet and used, come trickling out of it in dribs and drabs— The thought of his bare skin, its gooseflesh, and wondering if Steve is getting cold— 

"While I'm still young," Steve says. Someone laughs, and Bucky's gaze darts to their audience. Mustache seems to approve of the change in position, his hand stripping his dick faster. Nellie appears to have lost his resolve entirely, tiptoeing away toward the street. 

"Hey!" Bucky snaps his fingers. "Come over here and keep his mouth busy." It'll be easier if Steve isn't yammering at him the entire time.

Nellie points to himself. "Me? Nah, I'm leaving."

"The hell you are." Bucky's on him in five strides, hard cock leading the way. He fists a hand in the guy's collar and drags him over to the crate, gives him a hard shove. "Get to it."

Nellie looks down at Steve wildly, but he's no help. He just drapes his arms over the other side of the crate with a grin. "I like these odds."

"Shut up." Bucky stalks back behind Steve's ass and parts his cheeks with his hands, staring at his messy target. He's not a complete innocent, he gets the general idea. Still, his hand shakes as he lines up the head of his dick with the sticky, wet rim of Steve's hole. 

A high squeak interrupts his concentration. "Oh Lord!" Nellie cries as Steve licks at his dick. It's a fat one, so thick that Steve's fingers barely close around it. 

"Didn't have to be so shy," Steve tells him between swipes of his pink tongue. "If you can hold out for as long as it takes this fella to finish up, you can have me next. I'd like that. Wouldn't you? All of this in me—"

"Quit yapping and _suck_ ," Bucky says, and leans over him to grab his blond hair, pushes his mouth onto that big dick. Nellie says a few choice words to the saints. Mustache doubles his efforts. 

Steve just mmmmm's around his mouthful. Bucky's glad he can't see his face; he's not sure he could stomach that sort of rapture. 

Nothing for it anymore. It's come to this. He takes hold of his cock and pushes in. It's not as easy as he'd thought it'd be, what with all the fucks Steve had already had. He's still tight, hot as hell, slick as sin. 

Bucky's hands tremble their way onto Steve's narrow hips, just as Steve's fingers curl into the pleats of Nellie's trousers for stability. At first Bucky's not sure how much he'll be able to move, how hard he can thrust into that tightness, but Steve takes the decision out of his hands by grinding his ass back into Buck. 

God _damn_ , it feels amazing, and Bucky has to clench his teeth just to keep from saying so. He stands there stockstill as Steve fucks himself onto both cocks, back onto Buck's, forward to take the nervous guy deeper down his throat. 

"What a picture," Mustache says from the sidelines, and he trundles forward to let loose a load of jizz with a loud grunt. It splatters against Steve's backside, drips down his crack and around Bucky's own dick. Steve moans and fucks back on him harder, and Bucky is frozen in place, watching this stranger's come coat his shaft while it slides into Steve's body. 

A friendly pat to Steve's tensed shoulder, and Mustache leaves their little tableau.

Bucky snaps. He pulls Steve back bodily by his hipbones, fucks into him with animal impatience and no finesse. Steve, for his part, leaves off sucking the cock in front of him to shout, "Yes, finally, oh god!" He worms his right hand under his belly and cants his hips up just enough to jack himself. "Please, please, please," he chants. "Right there, right fucking there."

"Keep him quiet," Bucky says to Nellie. The kid takes Steve by the chin and almost gently feeds him his dick. Steve takes it like he's dying for it, and hell, maybe he is. 

Doesn't matter, the only thing that matters is that Steve comes on his dick, for him. That it's Bucky who gets to fuck him while he tightens up, insides fluttering. Pools of white spunk join the mess already on Steve's jacket, and Steve wails around his mouthful. 

Nellie pulls his dick out of Steve's mouth to let him moan to his heart's content. Bucky can see the calculating look in his eye, watching how fast Bucky's hips are slamming into Steve, how close he must be. He's thinking maybe he'll get to fuck Steve last, Bucky knows it. 

That is not going to happen. 

"Come in his fucking mouth," Bucky says in a hiss, "or I'll break your goddamn nose."

The guy wilts under that argument, and it turns out he's too on edge anyway, because he doesn't even get his dick between Steve's lips before he's tossing his head back and cussing up a storm. Steve's surprised gasp is enough to tell Bucky he's wearing the guy's come on his face. 

"Now beat it," Bucky says, and Nellie leaves before he's even got his dick put away. Then it's just the two of them. Bucky fucks him harder.

"Looks like you worked your way through the whole crowd," Bucky says from behind clenched teeth. "Proud of yourself?"

Steve turns his head to look over his shoulder at Bucky. There's a clot of jizz at the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin. His pink tongue darts out for a taste. 

"Not the whole crowd, not yet," he says with a sleepy smile. "Go ahead, finish up. 's late."

Bucky blinks a bead of sweat from his lashes. "You asshole. You goddamned—" His hips stutter, and he comes. Long, jagged pulses, a spreading heat. Steve sighs and lays his cheek against the wooden slat of the crate, eyes at half-mast. Bucky can't stop though, just keeps pounding away slower and slower until gobs of creamy spunk are squeezing out of Steve's hole around his cock. 

"You're a fucking mess," he tells Steve. "You're all sloppy, you know that?" 

"Like you're clean as a whistle," Steve retorts, but there's no heat to it. 

Bucky's hips finally stop, his limp dick slipping from Steve with another rush of come. Steve seems content to lay there, dripping, until the cows come home. A grin plays on his wet mouth. The idea of kissing him crosses Bucky's mind: he could blanket Steve's body with his larger one and press his lips there, lick all the filth away. 

He presses closer. 

A low tweet, like a bird, echoes through the archway and Steve bolts upright. "Cops," he says. "That's the lookout's signal." 

Thoughts of a kiss evaporate instantly. "Come on, get up." He helps hoist Steve on his feet with one hand while doing up his flies with the other. He takes Steve's jacket and drapes it over his shoulders, hiding the worst of the rucked and wrinkled shirt. He hauls up Steve's trousers and can only button the waistband shut before the sweep of the patrolman's light bathes them in a watery yellow. 

"Lean on me," Bucky whispers, and Steve does, mashing his messy face into Buck's shoulder and affecting a limp.

They make it three steps before the patrol car's window rolls down. "Everything okay, fellas?" a cop with a heavy neighborhood accent calls.

"My friend's had a little too much to drink tonight," Bucky says. He can barely see anything in the glare of the searchlight but he gives the cops a matinee smile. "Don't worry, I'll get him home safe."

"My best friend!" Steve offers in his best slur. A little too theatrical for Bucky's tastes, even without the hearty thump on his back. "Always looking out for me."

A long moment where the patrol car sits in silence. Then the light swings away to leave them in blissful darkness, and the cop says, "Keep an eye out. This time of night? Lots of weirdos on the streets."

Bucky thanks the officer for the sound advice and hustles Steve home with speed. Steve, it seems, actually is limping, but he doesn't complain about the pace. They don't speak again until they're home with the door locked and barred behind them. 

"Hold on, let me get this going for you," Bucky says as he levers the makeshift tabletop off their clawfoot tub. It makes his face heat to think of it, but he wants to wash Steve clean, get all that come and sweat off him. A sort of apology for his behavior, _I don't know what came over me, you know I'm not like that, Stevie_. 

But Steve wants none of it. "I'll take a bath in the morning," he says behind a yawn, and toddles toward the bedroom while stripping off his dirty clothes and leaving them in a trail behind him. He's dressed in only his shorts when he pulls down his bedsheets and fluffs his pillow. Bucky can see the bruises on the back of his neck, his sharp hipbones. Shame floods coldly through him.

"Steve, we got to talk about this."

"Says who?" Steve slides into bed with a hiss of pain, a hand to the small of his back. Must be killing him.

Bucky puts the table back together with a shake of his head. "Says me. Look, before tonight—"

"In the morning," Steve groans. He covers his face with his hands. 

Bucky licks his dry lips. His now-extinguished virginity, his disgust at the whole situation, it's all there on the tip of his tongue. But instead he says, "Can't I be enough, Steve?"

Steve uncovers his face and blinks owlishly at the bright kitchen light. He doesn't get it, so Bucky steps closer to the bed, his hands balled into fists at his sides, head ducked low like this is his penance. 

"If you really need it— It's like a sickness, right? I could help. Could do...whatever you wanted me to. Whenever you're hurting for it." His face is flaming now, but he says the words because he means them. He could keep Steve away from the bridges and alleys, keep him here at home, give it to him over and over until he was satisfied. For Steve, he would sin every day.

Steve smiles ruefully up at him. "Thanks, Buck. Really. But there's only one of you." He turns over to face the wall and settles in for sleep, giving Bucky his back.

Bucky swallows, standing like a putz in the middle of their tiny bedroom that now stinks of men. But as he crawls fully clothed into his own meager bed, Steve murmurs quietly, on the edge of sleep: "Next time, you can go last again. I'll let you walk me home."

What is Bucky becoming, that such a small crumb from such a filthy plate is enough to let him sleep soundly?

 

 

fin

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to reserve for looking at this! 
> 
> If you like thinking about Steve and/or Bucky being at the warm center of a come-pile, you might want to follow me on [tumblr](http://stuffimgoingtohellfor.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> This is a result of some historical discussions & challenges in the [Hydra Trash Compactor Challenge](https://www.tumblr.com/search/hydra+trash+compactor+challenge). Maybe that sounds defensive? I don't mean to be; I just love gangbang stories.


End file.
